Erle Gardner: The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe

Mason said, “Now you’ve got me, Della. She’s hardly the criminal type. Back of her somewhere is an interesting background of philosophy... We’ll chalk it up as one of life’s adventures, an isolated chapter which we can’t understand without knowing what has gone before, yet interesting, nevertheless. It’s like picking up a magazine, getting interested in a serial installment, and reading about characters doing things which don’t make sense because we don’t know what’s gone before, yet getting interested in the people we’re reading about. That’s the way it is in this case. We don’t know what’s gone before and we don’t know what’s to follow.”

“A while ago you asked me if learning to know people didn’t make me cynical and I told you it didn’t. The real handicap about knowing people too well is that it takes all the thrill out of life. People become hopelessly drab and monotonous as they become more obvious. Nothing is new. The people one meets become a procession of mediocrities hurrying down life’s pathway on petty errands. But every so often life makes amends by tossing out an experience which can’t be classified. So let’s chalk this up as one of life’s interesting interludes and let it go at that.”

But Perry Mason was wrong in supposing that he was not to know of that which followed. He had disposed of his appointment and was studying a recent case dealing with the admissibility of evidence obtained through wire tapping, when Della Street opened the door from her secretarial office and said, “Miss Trent is in the outer office, asking if she can see you without an appointment.”

“Virginia?” Mason asked. She nodded. “Didn’t say what she wanted, Della?”

“No.”

“And she’s alone?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Mason said, “bring her in and let’s get it over with.”

He cleared a space on his desk by the simple expedient of pushing back the law books. He was lighting a cigarette when Della Street escorted Virginia Trent into the office. At his first meeting, he had devoted his attention to the aunt. Now he studied the niece thoughtfully as she walked across to seat herself in the big, black leather chair near the left-hand corner of his desk. She was, he saw, a tall, thin girl, with a mouth which showed too much determination and too little lipstick, large, moist gray eyes, clothes which were cut along severe lines, and the slender, slightly nervous hands of one who is very sensitive. “Was there,” Mason asked, “something I could do for you?” and his voice indicated that he had quite definitely ceased to be the genial host and had become the busy lawyer.

She nodded and said, “It’s about my Aunt Sarah.”

“Yes?” Mason asked.

“You saw what happened at lunch. Aunt Sarah didn’t fool me, and I’m quite certain she didn’t fool you. She was shoplifting.”

“Why shoplifting?” Mason asked.

“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Did she need the things?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t she have enough money to buy what she wants?”

“Of course she does.”

Mason settled back in his chair. His eyes showed interest. “Go ahead,” he said, “I’m listening — but strip it down to essentials.”

Virginia Trent’s gloved hands smoothed the pleats of her gray skirt. She raised her eyes and said, “I’ll have to begin at the beginning and tell you the whole thing. My aunt,” she went on, “is a widow. Her husband died years ago. My uncle, George Trent, never married. He’s a gem expert, buying and selling stones on commission, cutting and polishing, and redesigning. He has an office and a shop in a loft building at nine thirteen South Marsh Street. He keeps from two to four gem cutters and polishers constantly employed... Tell me, Mr. Mason, are you a student of psychology?”

“Practical psychology,” the lawyer said. “I don’t go much on theory.”

“You have to interpret facts in terms of theory in order to understand them,” she said didactically.

Mason grinned. “It’s been my experience that you have to interpret theories in terms of facts in order to understand theories. However, go ahead. What were you going to say?”

“It’s about Uncle George,” she said. “His father died when he was just a boy. George had to take on the support of the family. He did it wonderfully well, but he never had any boyhood. He never had a chance to play and never...”

“What does that have to do with your aunt?” Mason asked.

“I’m coming to it,” she said. “What I was trying to explain is that Uncle George has an innate repression, a subconscious rebellion against environment which...”

“Which does what?” Mason asked, as she hesitated.

“Makes him get drunk,” she said.

“All right, go ahead,” the lawyer told her. “Never mind the verbal embellishments. He gets drunk. So what?”

“He gets drunk,” she said, “periodically. That’s why I know it’s a subconscious rebellion against a routine environment which...” She checked herself as she saw the lawyer’s upraised hand, and hurried on to say, “Anyway, what I’m getting at is that he’ll be perfectly steady for several months at a time. Then something will happen and he’ll go on one of his benders. Poor Uncle George, he’s so methodical in everything that he’s even methodical about that. When he feels one of these spells coming on, he carefully locks up everything in the office vault, to which my aunt has the combination. Then he takes the ignition keys out of his car, puts them in a stamped envelope, addresses them to himself, puts the keys in the mail and then goes ahead and gets drunk. While he’s drinking, he gambles. Three days to a week later, he’ll show up, completely broke, his eyes bloodshot, usually he’s unshaven, and his clothes are a sight.”

“Then what does your aunt do?” Mason asked, with interest.

“Aunt Sarah takes it right in her stride,” she said. “There’s never a word of remonstrance. She bundles him off to a Turkish bath, takes his clothes, has them cleaned and pressed, sends another suit to the Turkish bath, and, when he’s thoroughly sobered and quite respectable, lets him go back to his office. In the meantime, Aunt Sarah has the combination to the vault. She gets out the stones the men are to work on, and sees that they keep busy.”

“Rather a nice arrangement all around, I’d say,” Mason observed. “They make a nice team.”

“Yes,” she said, “but you don’t realize what all of this is doing to Aunt Sarah. The strain on her nervous system must be terrific. All the more so, because she never gives any external evidences of it.’

“Bosh!” Mason said. “Your Aunt Sarah is a woman who’s looked the world in the face and isn’t afraid of it. She knows her way around, and doesn’t quarrel with life. I venture to say she doesn’t have a nerve in her body.”

“She gives one that impression,” Virginia Trent said austerely, “but I feel quite certain, Mr. Mason, that if we are to account for this peculiar shoplifting complex, we will find that it’s due to a reflex subconscious disturbance.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said. “How long’s this shoplifting been going on?”

“Today was the first intimation I’ve had.”

“And what explanation did your aunt make?” Mason asked, his voice showing his interest.

“That’s just it. She didn’t make any. She managed to avoid me almost as soon as we left the department store. I don’t know where she’s gone. I’m afraid she’s still emotionally upset. I’m afraid her psychic balance has been affected by...”

“In other words, you mean you’re afraid she’s shoplifting again, is that it?”